


Cry No More

by fel24601



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Bureaucracy, Canon Compliant, Communication Failure, Coping with trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Post-Canon, Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son, Vampires, Watford (Simon Snow), emotionally significant hand-touches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-28 06:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20774159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fel24601/pseuds/fel24601
Summary: The gang races to Watford.There's so much left unsaid, so much still to discover.For those of us now yearning for more.***This is my take on the next instalment in the series. Takes place after the events of Wayward Son.***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I so enjoyed Wayward Son. It's left me longing for closure and some resolution, so I'm here to try my Cath Avery best to write the finale I'm hoping for.  
I hope you enjoy.

_Prologue:_

** _BAZ_ **

_Simon growls.“Why can’t you just admit that you’d be happier here?”_

_I raise my voice: “Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”_

_He sits back, like I’ve slapped him. _

_“Simon…” I whisper._

_I wait for him to get it. To finally give in to it. _

_Or maybe to say I’ve passed the test._

_Instead he shakes his head. “Baz…” His voice is barely there._

_And then: “Baz!” Penelope shouts, running towards us. She’s panting when I catch her by the shoulders._

_Her brown eyes are lit with horror. “Baz, there’s trouble at Watford. We have to go home—now!” _

* * *

We’re back in that blasted vehicle and hurtling toward the airport only minutes later. Bunce barely got her point across before we were charging back to Agatha’s apartment and helping her and Shepard fling our meager belongings out the door.

Simon’s the first to point out that, no matter how fast we get to the airport, our flight still doesn’t leave for another four hours.

“Snakes,” Bunce mutters, tugging anxiously at the hem of her skirt. She pulls her little gemstone out from somewhere. “All right. I’m sure I can spell something—”

“Don’t,” I tell her, already typing madly on my mobile. “There’s an earlier flight, but check-in closes in half an hour. Will we make it?”

Shepard (whose passage across the Atlantic I am apparently also paying for) leans on the pedal. “Easy.”

There are exactly five seats left, which is fortunate, though of course they’re all singletons and sprinkled throughout the cabin. Fine. Penelope takes over from me when it comes time to add our passport numbers, and she performs whatever strange magic that will let Shepard and Simon travel with their counterfeit documents.

Simon is sitting next to me, and I’ve no bloody clue whether he’s intentionally letting our knees touch the way they are or whether it’s just due to the seating arrangement. Regardless, I’m not moving until we get to the terminal.

“Penny, what exactly did your dad say?” Agatha asks as Bunce hands my mobile back.

Bunce shakes her head. “Trouble. Big trouble,” she says, which is hardly helpful. “Something about mom, and the Coven, and that the sooner we get there, the better.”

Simon’s jittery as I’ve ever seen him, bouncing one leg and rubbing at his hair and clenching his jaw the way he does when he can’t put his words together. I brush some imaginary dust from my trousers and let my fingers touch his, just barely. And for a moment he glances down, flexes his hand, like he’s thinking of taking mine. He doesn’t. At least his leg stops jiggling. It was making his wing-spikes jab me.

We pack Simon’s wings and tail away and tumble into the airport with minutes to spare. Simon turns white at airport security again, so I busy myself with things that don’t need fixing to take his mind off it all.

“Baz. It’s a t-shirt, it doesn’t matter if it’s creased.”

“Yes it does. But I’m more concerned with crumbs than creases.”

“I haven’t eaten in an hour. There’s no crumbs.”

“Not anymore. You’re welcome.”

He lets me tuck away some errant curls (I steadfastly do not think about whenever was the last time I touched his hair) and then he’s breezing through the metal detectors, casual as anything.

We board dead last and have to squeeze past forty rows of people who booked more than an hour in advance. We peel off one by one to our assigned seats, until it’s just Snow and I shouldering through to the very back of the plane. (I’ve never sat this far back in an aeroplane before.) (I’m actually very unaccustomed to in-flight service that doesn’t involve tablecloths.)

“You’re just there, Snow,” I tell him, because he’s peering at the seat numbers on entirely the wrong side.

He shoots me a glance as he drops into his aisle seat. “Got it, thanks,” he mutters.

My seat is two rows behind him. And it’s a middle seat, of bloody course, because this trip just couldn’t get better. The girl in the window seat is already swaddled in a thick blanket and completely passed out against the wall.

I flash the elderly woman in the aisle seat a winsome smile while she stands up to let me into my seat. Then I manage to whack my head on the overhead compartment on my way in.

“You all right?” comes Simon’s voice, and I see his eyes over the top of his seat.

“Grand,” I snap.

“Oh,” says the lady, still standing in the aisle. “Do you gentlemen know each other?”

“Er, yeah,” says Snow. I wedge myself into my seat.

“Oh! Well you poor things—here!” The woman scoops up her handbag, her stiff paperback novel, her wool cardigan. “I’ll trade with you, then you boys can sit together. How’s that?”

I shouldn’t feel a swoop of dread at the thought of sitting next to my boyfriend. Yet here we are. “Please, don’t trouble yourself.”

“Yeah,” says Simon, “it’s no big—okay, okay!”

Evicted from his assigned seat, Simon drops next to me moments later.

**SIMON**

I don’t know what comes next. I have no idea what to say, what to think.

_“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?” _his voice keeps saying in my mind.

He sounded like he meant it. And I think he really did.

But he hasn’t seemed to be happy _with _me, either.

I haven’t been able to bring myself to break up with him. I really, _really _don’t want to.

He’s right there, sitting beside me, stiff and uncomfortable and leaning violently away from the sprawling limbs of the girl in the window seat.

I put the armrest up, between us, to give him more room.

“Here,” I say, with a jerk of my head. “You can move over.”

He eyes me. He still looks pretty terrible from everything—as much as Baz can ever look terrible. Warily, he shifts over a bit, until our legs touch.

Then comes the announcement: “Stow tray tables, and ensure that seat backs are in the upright and locked position.”

My stomach drops. I hate this part. I hate taking off. How often do planes crash? Like all the time—right? Isn’t it usually in the first ten minutes or something? I feel like I read that somewhere.

“Snow,” Baz murmurs. “Simon. It’s all right.”

I huff and lean back further in my seat. We start rocketing down the runway, all thunder and rumble.

Baz’s hand is just there, so close to me. Fingers curled, palm up, like it could be waiting for me. He sees me looking, and his thumb twitches.

I used to just grab his hand all the time. I hardly let go of him for months, after the Mage. Baz’s got lovely hands.

I’m reaching before I realize, and Baz’s long fingers weave through mine.

He squeezes. The plane lifts. The world falls away.

**BAZ**

I do not let go of Simon’s hand. When the air hostess delivers us lukewarm beverages in wobbly plastic cups, Simon hands me mine and I drink it with my free hand. About half an hour into the flight Simon gets up to use the loo, and I fear while he’s gone that that’s it, I’ve reached my allotment of affection for the day. But when he returns, before he sits down, he takes a moment and smooths down a tiny piece of my hair, against the headrest. It makes me bold. I take a breath and reach for his hand, this time. He holds mine in his lap.

Sometimes there are moments like this. Where it’s achingly possible that we’ll be just fine.

Simon shifts, gives his shoulder a roll. He winces.

“How is it?” I whisper. “Your wing.”

Simon shakes his head. “Still hurts, a bit.”

“Want me to…?”

“Nah. S’fine. Just healing.”

I clench his hand tighter.

That moment. Those moments. When there wasn’t any gunfire and he was lying so bent and so still in the desert. The world tips, just thinking about it.

“Baz?”

This isn’t the place, I don’t think. But will I have another chance?

I stare at our hands. “I thought you were dead,” I tell him. “They shot you. You looked dead.”

Simon says nothing. I can’t get the picture of him out of my mind.

“They shot you, too,” he murmurs finally. “Loads.”

“It’s like you said,” I tell him. “I’m Kevlar. You, though—I thought…”

There’s a lump in my throat. I can’t speak around it.

Simon turns our hands over. He runs the fingers of his free hand over my tendons.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

I look over at his sheepish face, so drained but so alive.

I can’t help it. I start to laugh.

He does, too. He tips his forehead against mine.

**PENNY**

I spot them halfway through the flight, when I’m queueing up to pee.

Somehow Simon and Baz have wrangled two seats side by side (though Baz swore that we were all seated alone) and are leaning on each other, hands clasped and foreheads touching. I think Baz is asleep. Simon’s just watching him, brushing his thumb back and forth over the back of Baz’s hand.

It hurts to look at them.

It was hell, living with Simon when those two first got together. They barely stopped kissing to eat and sleep. It was revolting, but it was good. They’ve always been obsessed with each other.

Whatever it is that’s come since… it’s worse.

This trip was a disaster. But I think Simon and Baz might be coming out of it slightly better off than they went in.

There’s no time to deal with that now, though. Not after that phone call from dad.

**BAZ**

Simon lets me stay close for the whole flight. He holds my hand, lets me crowd him and lean into him. I revel in each moment of his warmth, his comfort-food smell.

He starts yawning, eventually, and I take the opportunity to guide his head down to my shoulder. I spend the next hour with my face buried in his hair. When he wakes up, I take a risk and press a kiss in his curls. I’m terrified to spook him away, but I need him to _know_.

He doesn’t pull away. He presses his face into my neck.

My legs cramp up in the second half of the flight, and the snoring girl on my other side keeps knocking me with her elbows, but I don’t dare move.

**SIMON**

I wait until the last possible second to remove myself from Baz. The plain taxies to the gate and people around us start shifting and unbuckling, but I stay put until the seatbelt sign goes dark. Whatever spell we cast up in the air, I hate for it to end.

It’s grey and drizzling at Heathrow, and Baz looks weepy with relief. Heat and sun don’t suit him. I’ll be glad when he stops looking so charred and scraped.

He stretches once he’s standing, dramatic and fluid. I can’t tear my eyes from his neck while he rolls his head from side to side.

He’s beautiful. And so good. And I love him so much.

And he—

_“Why can’t you see that I wouldn’t be happy anywhere without you?”_

I have to find some way to talk to him. To get the words out, and in some order that makes sense. I need to know what we’re doing.

Shepard, Aggie, and Pen are waiting for us just outside the aircraft door. We go up the accordion walkway together, apprehension growing with each step. I’ve no idea what we’re walking into at Watford. No one seems to.

We don’t have to wait that long to find out.

The moment we step into the arrivals area, we’re swarmed.

“Don’t cause a scene,” a man says. “Mind the Normals.”

“Magical instruments, please,” says someone else.

It’s the Coven. (Minus all the members who are related to any of us.) They spread us out, point wands at us discreetly, tell us not to try anything funny.

They take Baz’s wand from him, and demand Penny’s ring.

“I lost it,” she says, which I suppose is the truth.

“Hi, I’m Shepard,” says Shepard.

We’re escorted out of the terminal and loaded into a van. Some of the Coven stay with us, but there aren’t seats for everyone.

“What’s happening?” Agatha asks. “You can’t just round us up like this.”

“Where is the rest of the Coven?” Baz demands. “My father? Agatha’s? The Bunces?”

“There’s a Coven? Cool,” says Shepard.

“We will explain everything shortly,” says the woman driving the van. “These things have protocol. Just wait until we get to Watford.”

I haven’t been back to Watford since Baz’s Leaver’s Ball.

We keep glancing at each other, like we’re trying to communicate silently. All that I can figure out is to stay quiet. We have no idea what the Coven knows, what we’re walking into.

Baz links his pinky finger with mine on the seat between us.

I guess I’m going back to Watford.

**PENNY**

The gates open for us with magic, as they always have. The driver parks the van on the lawn near the courtyard and we’re ushered out into the rain.

“Come now,” someone barks. “Quickly.”

The members of the Coven assemble around us like a Roman battle formation. Like they’re shielding us—or keeping us contained.

They march us to the Weeping Tower, straight up to the headmaster’s office, which is flanked by two guards.

Mom is sitting, irate, in the corner of her office. There’s a Coven woman sitting at her big, gleaming desk, frowning at the computer.

“Penny,” mom breathes when she sees me. Then she glares at me. “What on earth have you done?”

“Right,” someone says, and the door clicks shut behind us all. The office is much too cramped for fifteen people to be wedged inside, and Simon’s wings sprang loose in the van and are hell-bent on destroying property.

“I bring this convening of the Coven to order,” says a man who I believe to be Philippa Stainton’s father. “We have rather urgent business to attend to. If you would—”

He gestures to the woman at the desk, who rotates the computer monitor to face us.

It’s a Youtube video.

Of us.

Simon makes landing like a bird of prey and slams a sword into a ren faire vampire. His wings beat blood red, taking up half the frame. The crowd around us whoops, delighted. They sound tinny and false through the speakers. There’s me, turning another vampire to dust. And Baz, behind us, moving like no human can. Too lithe, too smooth. His mouth looks full.

The woman lets it play for just a few moments, but it’s more than enough to damn us.

Mom is pale and fuming.

The Coven turn to my friends and I. Agatha looks ready to dissolve through the floor. (Though, this seems to have nothing to do with her.) Shepard is standing very still, trying not to be noticed.

“There are dozens more videos,” the woman who drove us here says. “Tons of angles. People are amazed by the… special effects.”

“This is a flagrant misuse of magic,” says Philippa’s father. “Such a public display in front of Normals. You’ve put both the existence of magic and the presence of vampires in a media spotlight.”

“For that,” says another woman, “by the laws of the Coven, Basilton Grimm-Pitch, Penelope Bunce, and Simon Snow will be held awaiting trial.”

“For abetting and harbouring a fugitive,” says Philippa’s father, “Mitali Bunce will be held awaiting trial.”

“A fugitive?” I repeat. “She didn’t even know we were in America, she hasn’t—”

“And—” Philippa’s father looks uncomfortable now. Frightened, even. I notice that three members of the Coven are standing in front of the closed door, wands out.

Now that I’m looking around the room, it occurs to me that all the Coven are wearing silver crosses around their necks.

Philippa’s father wipes a hand over his brow. “I’m sorry, this is most unpleasant. If you would.” He gestures to two of his colleagues, who step forward toward us, crosses gleaming and wands raised.

Simon’s wings knock a shelf full of papers to the ground.

Baz looks murderous. And terrified. And terrifying.

“Terribly sorry,” Mr Stainton repeats. “Seize the vampire.”


	2. Chapter 2

**AGATHA**

Watford looks exactly the same.

I don’t know what I expected—state of the art furnishings? A Chosen One era memorial garden? A burning effigy of the Mage?—but it’s not this.

Fucking _any _of this.

I do my best to walk well and normal despite the acute awareness of the wands at my back. I forgot how thick the grass grows here. I nearly trip.

That scene in Penny’s mom’s office reminded me of all the reasons I tried to leave magic behind.

Magicians can be so awful. Backward. And they’re _dramatic. _

The moment those people took Baz by the arms, Simon turned into the spitting image of a demon. It took three more Coven mages with their magical instruments aimed at him for Simon to shut his mouth and back down.

Penny cried. Quietly, very discreet, but I saw the tears on her face.

Shepard, bless his heart, (I’m still boggled at how they picked him up on their little road trip) looked downright woeful. Like we’d just told him the Tooth Fairy isn’t real. (She _is _real, actually. She’s horrible.)

To his credit, Baz stood tall and still. I forgot what it’s like to see him fuming like that, like he’ll set you alight with his glare. He kept his head high and didn’t say a word. (He didn’t have to. Simon said it all and then some.)

The Coven took our phones. They handed out little silver crosses on chains like we’re all about to change our minds about Baz this second. They finally looked at Shepard and said “Is that a Normal? Get him out of here. And befuddle him.” Someone dragged him out. I doubt he’ll be gone long.

Mitali asked what would happen next.

“House arrest,” they said, until the trial.

And the thing that no one’s said out loud yet. The Strickening.

Apparently they’re keeping me as well, even though I wasn’t in the video. Apparently the Coven doesn’t trust us under house arrest in our actual homes, except for Mitali. Apparently they want us all in one spot, where they can keep a guard on Baz at all times. Apparently, since the students are gone for summer hols, Watford is empty. And full of dormitories.

**SIMON**

They assign eight mages to take Baz and I to our rooms. _Eight. _Two for me, six for Baz. As though he’ll wreck his twenty year streak of not eating humans this moment.

I’m seeing red. My skin is boiling. I keep whacking people with my wings but I can’t for the life of me hold them still.

I just can’t believe—

I never thought—

They’ll break his wand. They’ll strike him from the Record. They’ll tear out his fangs because of _me. _Because I was doing so shit that my friends hauled me across the Atlantic for some soul-searching and cheesecake.

I spent eight years trying to convince anyone who would listen that Baz was a vampire.

And I fucking did it.

“This won’t work,” says the mage on my left. We’re stood before the first dorm in Mummer’s House, right by the front door. “There’s too many exits. We can’t put a guard at each one.”

“Huh,” huffs the man at Baz’s back. Baz stares straight ahead, jaw clenched. “Reckon there’s a room somewhere with only one way out?”

The mage on my right pipes up. “There’s the tower, isn’t there? There was a rumour when I was a kid that the tower room had its own loo.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Might as well stick them both in there, then. Unless we’re worried about Snow’s neck.”

“Worry about your own bloody neck,” I spit.

And that’s how, a year and a half since I lost my magic, Baz and I find ourselves together in Mummer’s Tower once more.

**BAZ**

The room remembers us. Neither Snow nor I casts the spell or pricks ourselves, but the door swings open anyway. And it slams shut, immediately, behind our backs.

The Coven hasn’t thought any of this through. I don’t know whether they plan to let us down to the dining hall each day, or how I’ll drink, or how long any of this is supposed to take. I don’t know if they’ve alerted my family yet. They’ll have to eventually.

A part of me always knew this would happen. Either Snow would run his sword through me, or I’d have my fangs ripped out and my wand snapped. There’s no happy ending for a vampire, and I can’t believe I let myself believe for so long that there might be.

Snow is frozen at the door. I can’t imagine how this must be for him, coming back to this place where the Mage raised him as a soldier. He hasn’t been back to our tower since the day it all came crashing down.

The only thing worse than living here with him was when I returned for spring term and lived here alone. His bed was still rumpled and his jumper was tossed on the floor. I left it all exactly where it was. So I could imagine he was still coming back.

At long last, Simon turns his eyes on me.

I don’t think either of us has the words for this situation.

I sit down on my old bed, and drink in the familiar smell.

This won’t be anything like just being roommates.

**SIMON**

I once stood right where I’m standing now and punched Baz in the nose. He bled all over and called me a pathetic excuse for a mage and grabbed me by the collar and tossed me aside.

I sat on that bed there, night after night, watching Baz sleep and listening to the pattern of his breaths. Enough so that I could tell when a nightmare was coming. I watched him in the moonlight and thought _how fucking dare he be so beautiful. _

I was an idiot. Sickeningly in love with my roommate and too stupid to even notice.

Now here we are again, even worse off.

I wish he’d say something. I wish he’d scream at me. _Got what you want now, Snow? Is this enough for you? _

I won’t let it happen, of course. I won’t just fucking sit here. I’ll do anything, I challenge the Coven, I’ll tear down the magical world if they’ll leave him be.

I should tell him. He should know.

“Baz, I—”

“They’ve not given us anything,” he says, standing up fast. “What I’d give to brush my teeth.”

I stare, dumbfounded, as he strides to the door and whips it open, much to the horror of the man outside.

“Mr Pitch, I’m afraid you have to stay inside—”

“Fine. It’s just, you see, I’ve just stepped off an aeroplane. I would rather like to freshen up.”

“You’ve a toilet just there,” the man says, pointing. “Be my guest.”

Baz’s back is to me, but I can all but hear him raise a sculpted eyebrow. “I’m sure I would, except that you’ve not provided us with so much as a toothbrush.”

The man pauses, splutters. “Haven’t you got any luggage?”

“Hardly. And it’s still at Heathrow. We were ushered out rather quickly, you see.”

His mother’s blue silk scarf is still peeking out the pocket of his jeans, thank Merlin.

Our guard looks rather like he’s about to shit himself. “I’ll see what I can track down,” he says, and gulps.

“Do,” instructs Baz. “And a trouser press, if I can’t have my wand. I’m sure my father will be delighted to hear that his son is being so well taken care of.” He flings the door shut in the man’s face.

Then he pauses, and opens it again.

“And in your preparations for our supper this evening,” Baz says, voice dripping with honey, “bear in mind that Agatha Wellbelove eats vegetarian.”

The guard blinks. “And are we to serve you a glass of blood with your tea today?”

“Surely not. I’m not a vampire. Scones will suffice with tea, I should think.”

When he shuts the door again and turns to lean against it, he looks as though he’s about to cry.

“I’m sorry we went to America,” I say in a rush. My voice comes out barely over a whisper.

Baz’s eyes are depthless and ocean-grey. “I’m not.”

“I’m sorry we went anywhere near that faire—I’m sorry I put you in danger—I’m—”

“Snow,” Baz says. His long fingers grip the door at his back. “It was only a matter of time.”

I go to him. I lean against the wall at his side. “They have no proof,” I say. “We’ll fight it.”

Baz closes his eyes and nods.

**BAZ**

Jet-lag makes the day even more surreal.

I catch myself yawning when Snow starts pacing the room, back and forth from the window to the door, and I check the clock to find it’s barely ten AM. The Coven must have waited up all night to accost us at the airport.

I spend a long while lying on my bed, just staring up at the ceiling and remembering. Simon’s frustrated stomps and huffs are a welcome and familiar tune. I recall lying here on nights that Simon was gone with the Mage, hunting down ogres or banshees or something, and pinching myself to stay awake long enough to make sure he returned safely and in one piece.

I locate the little crack in the ceiling that matches the pattern of moles on Simon’s collarbone.

I shiver at the breeze over my skin, because these days I let Simon keep all the windows open that he likes. It always makes me freeze. A few months ago, if I shivered, Simon would have leapt at the chance to hold me and warm me up.

(I’ll deny it until my dying breath, but there’s not much I wouldn’t give for a good snuggle, just now. Provided it was with Snow.)

I’m debating closing my eyes for a quick nap around noon when there comes a knock at the door. I raise an eyebrow at Simon, and he obligingly goes to open it.

“You’re to come down to tea,” says our visitor.

On cue, Snow’s stomach rumbles. I heave a sigh and swing my legs out of bed to put on shoes.

We travel with the same elaborate escort as before. And the girls join us—they’re being held in the room below ours. Mitali abolished the single-gender dormitories when she began as Headmistress.

I’ve no idea why they’ve kept Agatha as well. I suspect they’re hoping to unearth more footage of all four of us blowing up werewolves at a music festival or something.

We’re directed to a table set with four places. The Coven stands guard at the doors and watches us.

There are scones on a tray with our tea, as I'd requested. With a sealed jam jar and an unopened package of butter, like an afterthought.

Snow meets my eyes as he sits down next to me. “You made them get scones,” he murmurs.

“Anything for you,” I breathe.

“Are you both all right?” Bunce asks in a hushed voice once we’re all settled.

Simon pours two teas and starts doctoring one delicately with milk and sugar. “Swell,” he says.

“We’re fine,” I tell her. “They’ve put us in our old room.”

“I know,” says Bunce. “Agatha and I asked if we can visit you, and they said yes. We’ll come up after. There’s a lot to talk about.”

“Indeed,” I agree, and accept my tea from Simon with a grateful brush of my fingers against his.

Agatha takes a glum bite of her scone. “Trouble never leaves you guys. Does it?”

“It’s going to be fine,” Simon says, a little aggressively, as he slathers a scone in butter. “We’ll figure something out.”

The doors bang open.

The mages standing guard jump back.

Silhouetted in the morning light and looking like the very picture of fury are the missing members of the Coven, plus a few.

Dr and Mrs Wellbelove. Martin Bunce, with Mitali at his side. My aunt, my step-mother, and my father.

**SIMON**

It’s like the air in the room is swapped out for something thinner. Suddenly the Coven, all standing around, glaring at us a moment ago, are shrinking back, exchanging frantic glances.

Malcolm Grimm steps into the dining hall. “Would someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?”

The same man who ordered our arrests wrings his hands and lays out the situation.

“Peter Stainton,” Penny hisses across the table, while the man explains the charges.

It’s a terrifying thing, watching my friends’ parents’ faces go from angry to shocked to horrified.

When Stainton gets to the vampire bit, Baz’s step-mum goes white as a sheet.

“This is preposterous,” booms Mr Grimm. “I am disgusted that our Coven would go behind the backs of so many of its members to conduct an arrest of this magnitude.”

Stainton chews his lips. “There was a conflict of interest, Malcolm. We proceeded as we saw fit.”

“You proceeded foolishly and this case will be treated as such. What a ridiculous accusation—a vampire? Really?”

“Agatha wasn’t with the others,” Mrs Wellbelove says. “She’s not in that video we were sent.”

“Well, no—” says Stainton.

“So the charges don’t apply to her,” continues Dr Wellbelove. “We’ll be taking her home. Unless you can provide evidence that she’s broken magical law.”

“I suppose that’s—”

“This was done incredibly poorly,” says Mrs Bunce. “I’m very disappointed in the Coven. Don’t think we’ll let this slide.”

“_And,_” says Fiona Pitch, her glare shooting daggers at the mages around the edge of the hall. “Don’t even bloody _think _about touching Baz’s name in the Record until a proper inquest’s done. Into the case as well as into the operation of this shit-show you call a Coven.”

Stainton huffs. “Excuse—”

“And don’t you fucking dare break his wand. It was my sister’s.”

“Very well,” says a woman, stepping forward. I recognize her as Niall’s mum. “I’m afraid there’s another matter, as well.”

Mrs Grimm lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Please, do tell us!” she cries.

Niall’s mum grimaces. “For knowingly harbouring a vampire, Fiona Pitch, and Daphne and Malcolm Grimm are to be placed on house arrest awaiting trial.”

Malcolm Grimm looks _livid. _

If not for the fact that I’ve watched football with him, and he sometimes calls me “son,” I’d be running from him.

There’s a long, horrifying moment. I’m fairly sure that if Baz weren’t here Fiona would already have burnt the place down.

Then everyone starts shouting. Our families (well. Not mine.) against the rest of the Coven.

Penny, Aggie, Baz and I look to each other, and silently keep sipping our teas.

When Baz reaches for a scone I nearly knock it out of his hand. But he opens his mouth and takes a careful, measured bite with not a fang in sight.

He sees me looking. If he could blush, I know he would.

“Lamb,” Baz explains. “He taught me how.”

My stomach sinks, a bit. “Oh. Is it very hard?”

Baz nods. “Incredibly.” And he eats with us, without even a hand over his mouth, for the first time.

He smiles a tiny smile at me, and my throat hurts.

In the midst of the chaos, Mrs Wellbelove descends on our table to whisk Agatha away. To my surprise, Agatha shakes her head.

“This is a mess, mum,” she says. “I want to make sure it all ends all right.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” says Pen.

Agatha nods. “Yeah, I know.”

**PENNY**

It seems as though the shouting won’t be through any time soon (rightly so) so our guards bring us around our outraged families and back to Mummer’s once we’re done eating. (Most of us. Simon stares a guard in the eye and picks up the plate with the rest of the scones. He brings it back with him.)

As promised, we are allowed in each others’ rooms, so Agatha and I follow the boys up to the top of the tower.

It’s too empty to look the same as it used to, but it’s still all so familiar.

There are deliveries on their beds, now. Clothes and pyjamas and toiletries and things—their actual ones, from home. Baz sighs in relief and scoops up the lot of it and he doesn’t come out of the bathroom for nearly forty-five minutes. He emerges smelling woodsy as usual. I catch Simon’s eyes slipping shut at the scent.

“First of all,” I say, and fish my purple gem out of my pocket. Baz gives me an approving nod. I soundproof the door. “The story is that the dragon stole my ring. Okay?” The others voice their agreement. “Next—the Coven haven’t mentioned magical theft or counterfeiting at all. I vote we keep it quiet unless they bring it up, in which case we come clean. Agreed?”

“Good plan,” Baz says.

“Have they told anyone whether we’re allowed out of our rooms at all?” I ask, to blank looks. “I’d be grateful to use the library. And go for a walk. I’m going to sneak Shepard back in.”

Agatha’s eyes bug. “_What_?”

“Well we can’t just _leave _him. We flew him all the way over here with us.”

“Spell him invisible and stash him in a room somewhere,” says Simon. “We can slip him food.”

“We won’t _stash _him. But yes, that’s mostly the plan.”

“Speaking of slipping food,” Simon says. “We need to make a way to get blood up here.”

“Simon,” says Baz.

“No,” says Simon. “We’re denying everything. And there’s no way they’ll let you out for a stroll on your own, so hunting’s out.”

I hold up my ring. “If they let me out of Mummer’s I can visit the Wavering Wood.”

Simon gestures to the window. “No need. Birds.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “You’re right,” I tell him, and go to the window. “**_Birds of a feather_**,” I cast, holding my jewel in my fist.

It works. Brilliantly. We all catch an armload of birds (thank magic I already soundproofed the door) and help Baz stuff them all into the bathtub. (I spell them asleep to make it easier on him. The catching and the killing.) He makes us leave while he eats behind the closed door. I’ll be sure to spell away the carcasses when he’s done.

Simon turns to me while Baz is locked in the toilet. He pulls Agatha and me close, and speaks in a low, serious voice.

“I have a plan,” he says.

“It’s all on video,” Agatha says. “There’s no denying the Normals saw you.”

Simon’s already shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit about that. I have a plan for Baz, and I’ll need your help.”

**BAZ**

I’ve always liked Mummer’s Tower at night.

Maybe because that’s when I could stare at Simon freely, all through our shared youth here. It still feels like home in here when the sky darkens and Simon reflects the golden candlelight.

The girls don’t come back up with us after supper, so we climb the last flight of stairs alone (with a guard trailing five feet behind.) The Coven hasn’t given us much with which to entertain ourselves, so Simon and I find ourselves sitting on our beds again, facing each other.

As a boy, I’d have given anything to find myself in this situation. In this room, with Simon Snow, and we’re together. Boyfriends.

It’s like some kind of cosmic joke—that I finally got the one thing I’d always dreamed of (I still dream of it, I doubt I’ll ever stop) and I’ve managed to fuck it all up. Our relationship is holding on by the most tenuous of threads, and I’m to be cast out of the world of mages at the Coven’s earliest convenience.

I long to push our beds together and spend the night wrapped in Simon Snow. I want to fall asleep with my ear to his heart. I want to murmur into his mouth that I love him and I always have.

I don’t want to frighten him away.

It’s too early to sleep, but we’re jet-lagged prisoners and our bodies have been through a tremendous amount in the last week. Simon pulls his t-shirt off by the back of the neck and drops it straight on the ground.

We never used to change in front of each other in this room.

I won’t be the only one to change in the bathroom, so I unbutton my shirt as well. Simon tugs on some joggers, which strikes me as odd because in the summer he tries to sleep in as little as possible. I suppose that whoever raided his apartment for clothes didn’t know this, and didn’t bring him shorts, but I’m surprised he doesn’t just sleep in his pants. He often does. I can only assume he’s uncomfortable being so bare around me.

I hang my shirt and turn back to see Simon’s eyes wide and roving over me. I can’t decide if he looks more sad or disgusted. I move to cover myself, until I realize he’s staring at my scars.

America left me with many.

Bright white ones, all over my chest, from the skunk-man’s shotgun. Angry, puckered ones from the rifles in the desert, the day that Simon died.

(He didn’t. He’s alive. But I’ll never un-feel that loss.)

I had to scrub the bits of bullet and shell out of my skin for days after each of those. They slid out of my skin covered in my blood and clattered to the floor of the shower.

Simon crosses the room and touches my chest with gentle fingers. He traces his fingertips over each one, slowly, taking great care. I can’t tear my eyes from his face—soft, sad, so lovely I can hardly take it.

He has new scars, too. His wing is fully recovered but the mottled scar remains. I’d reach out to touch it but I’m afraid he’ll stop touching me. I just stand, still as I can, and let him be.

He’s shaking his head, staring at my mangled skin.

Then his hands slide around me and he hugs me close. I wind my arms around his neck and do the same.

He’s pure warmth. I could fall asleep right here in his arms.

Calloused fingers brush up and down my spine so lovingly I could cry. He’s so good, and so much, and I don’t tell him enough. Or at all. He should know.

I’m terrified to push him further away, but—Crowley—he _needs _to know. He deserves to know how loved he is.

“Simon,” I murmur into his hair.

“Hmm,” he hums against my neck. My eyes flutter closed.

I draw a deep breath. My voice gets stuck. “I…”

He leans back to look at me, and a warm hand cradles my face. I press my face into it.

“Baz?” Simon prompts gently. “You all right?”

I look at his plain-blue eyes, so earnest and unwavering. Beautiful, like the rest of him.

“Simon,” I say again.

And then he pulls away.

“M’tired,” he mumbles, and gives his arms a stretch.

Simon Snow falls into bed and leaves me standing there—alone, bereft, and trying not to fall apart.


	3. Chapter 3

**SIMON**

They summon us for breakfast at least an hour later than I’m used to.

“About time,” I grumble when the knock on the door finally comes. I can feel my stomach digesting itself. “I’m about to die.”

“Please don’t,” says Baz, shrouded in steam as he emerges from the bathroom looking like an actual work of marble.

He was unbelievable in the moonlight, last night. More stunning than any of those frustrated Watford nights I remember. And unlike any of those nights, sometimes when I opened my eyes to gaze at him I’d find his silver gaze watching me too. We spent the night sleeping fitfully, taking turns staring at each other. It made my stomach squirm. Sometimes I’m so sure that he’s still here with me, and the next minute I’m sure that the next words out of his mouth will be a break-up. Any moment now he’ll realize how much better he could do than me. Like someone who could actually, properly hold him and comfort him when his worst nightmares are coming true with the Coven.

The knock comes again while I’m entranced by Baz. He raises an eyebrow at me when I shake my head and answer it.

“Breakfast,” says this morning’s escort, who I think is called Boone.

“Great,” I say, holding the door open for Baz.

“Er—” Boone holds up a hand. He looks genuinely remorseful, and a little afraid, and I’m halfway to feeling sorry for him when he says “Not you,” and points to Baz.

Immediately I see my wings flexing in my peripheral. Baz catches my tail before it can break anything and he wraps it around his wrist.

“Oh?” Baz inquires, with the coldest glare I’ve seen in a while.

“New game plan,” Boone explains. “You’re to stay up here until the inquest. For security. Sorry.”

“You’re not serious,” I growl.

“Snow,” Baz murmurs.

“With all the security you’ve got already? You need this, too?”

Boone gives a pathetic smile. “Well, you lot are free about the premises, now. So that’s something, innit?”

“_No, _that’s—”

“That’s fine,” Baz cuts in, peeling my tail off his wrist. I think it was yanking on him. I wrap it round his leg instead—he likes that. “I assume my meals will be brought up?”

“Indeed, they will,” comes another voice, and Stainton appears from the staircase, carrying a covered tray. He comes straight into our room, cross hanging from his neck, and sets the tray down on Baz’s desk. His hand hovers over the metal top.

Baz’s leg is tensing under my tail.

The whole thing stinks.

**BAZ**

Stainton hesitates a moment before he uncovers my breakfast.

“When your family…_spoke _to us yesterday,” he says, “they seemed very concerned that we mightn’t be treating you well enough.”

There’s a burning determination in the man’s eyes. I’m not surprised he’s taken the lead on my persecution, given what I did to his daughter however many years ago. He doesn’t sound evil, or even outlandish—just angry, a tad frightened, and very proud.

“So,” Stainton continues, “to reassure your parents that we’re feeding you properly, we’re going to require that you eat the entire thing.”

At my side, Simon is rigid, practically buzzing. I can all but smell the ghost of his magic, that smoky miasma.

_It’s fine, _I want to tell him, _it’s precautionary, _until Stainton meets my eyes with a narrow gaze and lifts the top off the tray.

It’s not fine. It’s entrapment.

“You fucker,” Simon hisses. “This is bullshit.”

I try a more civil approach. “I don’t like black pudding,” I reason.

Stainton doesn’t waver. “Perhaps these will be more to your tastes, then,” he says, gesturing to some reddish flat things. “Supposed to be a delicacy in Scandinavia.”

Behind me, I can hear our guard Boone’s feet shifting back and forth with unease. The dark shapes on the plate swim in my vision, all shades of red and brown and black. My jaw aches. “I’d greatly prefer some tea and toast, thank you.”

“Your suggestion is noted. If you please, eat your breakfast.”

I clench my teeth. “Fine. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh, no,” says Stainton, with a carefully schooled mask of neutrality. “Mustn’t give Malcolm any reason to think we’re mistreating you. No, I think the safest thing is to watch and make sure you eat your fill.”

Simon doesn’t have magic anymore, but he might yet go off anyway.His tail is a tourniquet around my leg.

Boone clears his throat. “Er, Snow,” he says. “It’s off to breakfast for you.”

Simon doesn’t move. He flays Stainton with his eyes. And when he does move, it’s to lay a hand on my arm. Simon gives my bicep a squeeze. I meet his stare and try to telepathically communicate everything I can’t say out loud.

“Snow,” Boone repeats, a little sharper. “Get a move on.”

“I want to stay.”

“It’s not up to you.”

Simon gently withdraws his tail and lets it brush over me as he steps by, a silent reassurance. He slips out the door. Boone stays.

Just the three of us, then.

Stainton rearranges my desk so that I have to sit facing him, and then he pulls out his mobile and holds it up at me.

“Just a precaution,” he says, as he starts filming.

“But of course,” I reply.

My teeth rattle in my skull. The silver crosses burn my sinuses and fill my jaw with static, and the scent of my sanguine breakfast tugs on my fangs.

Thank fucking magic for Lamb’s lesson. I owe that bastard my continued existence.

Nothing to it, I tell myself. Hold in the fangs. Don’t give them one shred of evidence.

I think I’ve forgotten how to hold a fork. And how to swallow.

Crowley, but my jaw hurts.

**AGATHA**

Simon slams into the seat next to me and overturns my coffee. (It was gross anyway. I don’t like black coffee, but the Coven hasn’t provided any dairy-free milk.)

“Simon,” I gripe, and swat Penny’s hand away before she gets her stone confiscated for cleaning up with magic.

“They’re keeping Baz,” Simon spits, shoving his fingers through his hair. “He’s not allowed out of the tower. And they’re making him eat blood.”

Penny, who’s been uncharacteristically spacey all morning, snaps to attention. My stomach turns.

“Brought him a special breakfast. Black pudding and a whole pile of other stuff. Trying to expose him, I reckon.”

I tug Simon’s hand down before he can tear out any of his pretty curls.

“Well,” I say evenly, glancing meaningfully at the assembled Coven dining around us, “I hope they enjoy wasting their time.”

Simon keeps moving, bouncing his knee and tearing into his food and shifting in his seat. He stretches out his legs unexpectedly and I hear a soft hiss from across the table.

Penny glances at the empty space next to her.

Simon freezes. He shoots Penny a look.

Penny nods.

Shepard, thankfully, keeps quiet.

He refused to just hide and wait around for someone to come entertain him. I said it wasn’t worth the risk, but Penny let him come with us to breakfast as long as he swore to be silent and not to touch anything. She’s been spelling toast invisible for him whenever no one’s looking.

“Baz is going to be just fine,” Penny says softly, leaning toward Simon. Her shirt dips dangerously close to her food, and I grimace.

“I should’ve stayed,” Simon says through a mouthful of eggs. His leg’s jiggling so hard it’s rattling the whole table. “They told me to go and I just left. Just—fuck—I don’t—he—it’s—”

“You’re going to explode if you keep this up,” I say.

Simon huffs. Penny nudges some tea toward him. He gobbles down breakfast like he thinks someone’s about to take it away from him, and then he’s shoving back from the table. All the while, Penny stares blankly into her tea, scooting her spoon around inside in grating circles.

“I’ll be in the library,” Simon announces.

There’s a little sound from Shepard’s direction. I can all but see him leaping to his feet at the discovery of a magical library. This must be the longest he’s ever gone without talking—I’m astounded that he’s managing it so well.

Simon jerks his head a little, and Penny gives Shepard a nod.

She stays put while the boys head out. I’ve never seen her turn down a trip to the library.

“Penny?” I prod.

She bites her lip and draws in a trembling breath.

“Sorry,” Penny whispers. “I’m going to…”

She stands up from the table, too, and hurries out of the dining hall before I can so much as blink.

Two of the Coven women nearby draw their wands. I hurry to appease them.

“She’s upset,” I explain. “I’ll go see what’s going on.” And I follow Penny back to Mummer’s House.

**SIMON**

“_Wow,” _Shepard says as soon as the library door shuts behind us. Immediately books start tilting on the shelves as he races to look at all the titles. I’ve no idea how long he’ll be invisible. “Are you _kidding _me right now? This place would’ve been so useful like three years ago. But now works too.”

“Have at it,” I tell him. “Most of England’s magical knowledge is in here. Whatever you want to know. Just toss me anything you come across about vampires, would you?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Shepard says, just a disembodied voice coming from a growing tower of floating books. Then: “Hang on, what?”

“Oh, and anything about the Coven itself. Or, like, magical civics. But start with vampires.”

I’m already marching over to my goal, a shelf near the back of the library that I frequented in fifth year. The only Dewey Decimal number I know by heart: 398 point 45.

I yank down some of my usual books.

“Simon?” says Shepard, close by. “Look, Penny filled me in on everything. Isn’t the point to convince your Coven that Baz _isn’t _a vampire?”

I thunk the books down onto a table and march over to the dimly-lit row of shitty school computers.

“For now, yeah,” I say, and open up a blank document. “But that’s like putting a plaster on the issue, don’t you think?”

“I don’t follow,” says Shepard. He sets some more books down next to mine.

I think of Baz, up in our tower, staring down Stainton and Boone while they wait for him to slip up. One second of distraction and he’s theirs. He can handle it, I know. The next vampire mightn’t be so lucky.

Fiona—that’s who I should ask. She’ll have something to lend to my project.

I’m not cut out for this. I need Penny’s help.

“What happens the next time someone accuses him?” I ask Shepard. “What happens if someone sees his fangs?”

“Jeez, things are different here,” he says. “In the US, people would be all over that.”

“Exactly,” I snap. “The Coven treats every vampire like the ones that killed Baz’s mum.”

“Baz doesn’t hurt humans.”

“No. He hunts bloody catacomb rats to survive. If that’s not good enough, it’s the Coven’s fucking problem.”

My tail is whipping about like mad, but Baz isn’t here to catch it for me.

Fingerprints appear in the dust coating a huge leather book. “So,” Shepard says, above it, “we’re… what? Writing a complete anthology of vampire fun facts?”

I throw a book approximately at Shepard. He catches it with a grunt.

“Merlin, no,” I say. “We’re going to change the fucking law.”

**AGATHA**

I find Penny sitting on her unmade bed and leaning against the wall. The Mummer’s rooms aren’t half as nice as the ones in the Cloisters, I think. They’re very drafty. And dark.

“Pen?” I say, slipping quietly through the door.

“I’m fine,” she says, too fast. “Just need a breather.” But her face is all wobbly and pinched, so I go and sit next to her.

“This isn’t about the Coven,” I guess.

Penny sobs.

“I don’t know why it’s hitting me now,” she whispers, and swipes at her eyes with her sleeve. “I already cried about it—it’s done.”

“You’re allowed to cry about something twice,” I joke, but it just makes Penny cry harder. I drape my arm behind her shoulder and lean into her.

She sobs for a good minute before she’s able to get the words out.

“Micah broke up with me,” she says, voice thick with tears.

“Oh, Pen.”

“And it’s fine—I get it. He was absolutely right. But—just—”

“Shh. It’s the end of a—what?—six year relationship? Of course you’re sad. Anyone would be distraught.” (I mean—_I _wasn’t. But Simon and I weren’t together so long. And he was in love with his roommate the whole time.) (And I’m thinking that I was never really into him in the first place.)

“We were going to get married,” Penny wails.

“Well.”

“I was so sure of him.”

“Of course you were. You two were really good.”

“Until we weren’t.”

“Right.”

“Everything’s falling apart,” she gasps, and dissolves into fresh tears. Her head falls on my shoulder.

I hug her hard. “It’s not. It’s just changing.”

**BAZ**

Simon doesn’t return until nightfall.

When the door swings open I leap to my feet.

“_There _you are,” I hiss. Then I get a good look at him.

He’s dead on his feet. I haven’t seen him this weary since—well, several times in America, actually. But he looks downright post-Mage-mission spent.

“You all right?” he asks, kicking off his shoes.

“Terrific,” I gripe. “I’ve had just the loveliest day.”

“Sorry,” Simon says, and sinks down onto his bed. “I was in the library.”

“I’ve never known you to visit the library except to spy on me.” I don’t know where my anger’s come from. Maybe I just missed him.

He shrugs.

“And Bunce and Wellbelove?” I ask. “The Normal?”

“Shepard was with me. Didn’t see Aggie or Pen after breakfast, though.” He looks me over. “Did you… was it okay?”

I shut my eyes. I’m trying very hard to forget this morning.

“They didn’t get what they wanted, if that’s what you’re asking. But I can’t say it was the most pleasant experience.”

“It’s a good thing you met Lamb,” Simon says flatly.

“It absolutely isn’t,” I snap. “He tried to tell me that your death was in my best interest.”

Simon’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he says, finally. “This morning must have been… Merlin, I can’t imagine. I’m proud of you.”

And fuck if my heart doesn’t melt. It’s the most sincerity I’ve gotten out of him in ages.

_This is the part where you hold me, _I think at him. _Sweep me off my feet, Snow. Tell me it’s going to be all right. _

He stands up, then, and for a moment I think he’ll fulfill my wish.

He comes close.

I breathe him in deeply as he tilts my head down with his warm hand and kisses me softly on the forehead.

It’s over too quickly.

I don’t want him to step away.

“What were you doing in the library?” I ask, voice hushed, in a desperate attempt to keep him near me.

Simon meets my eyes with the most confusing expression I’ve ever witnessed on his face. I can’t tell if he’s sad or hopeful or angry or just filled up with love. (_Please _let it be love.)

He opens his mouth but no words come out. I allow myself the excuse to stare.

“I’ll tell you if it works out,” Simon murmurs.

**SIMON**

It’s just another unspoken thing coming between us.

But I doubt I’m enough to pull this off, and I don’t want to get his hopes up.


End file.
